And Night Will Always Come
by TheDarlingDearheart
Summary: Tonight on Murdoch Mysteries, Detective William Murdoch must put the puzzle pieces together when an inventor's new creation is used with malicious intent. A killer is running rampant in the streets of Toronto leaving a series of grisly clues and will not give up easily. So how does one stop a murderer who will stop at nothing? Originally published on AO3.
1. Chapter 1

**If you're reading this, thanks for getting past the bad summary!**  
 **I've done my best to stay true to the characters in spite of the fact that this story is designed to veer downhill very quickly. Please be aware that, while I've attempted to write this like a typical Murdoch episode in terms of dialogue and development, there will be mentions of blood, gore, and details the likes of which they don't usually cover in the show (whether visually or in characters' conversation). A friend gave me a wonderful descriptor for what you're about to read: Murdoch Mysteries meets Penny Dreadful.**  
 **I also (obviously) do not own Murdoch Mysteries. I've been pondering what it would be to write an episode of the show but with very dark undertones for some timet, and was inspired by 2018's Halloween special to finally write this.**  
 **Please enjoy! Comments/thoughts/critiques/suggestions are always welcomed. :)**

* * *

Constable George Crabtree had seen his fair share of violence. It came with the profession. The doors to Toronto's Station House No 4 should have been replaced a dozen times over with revolving ones at the rate they opened and closed. Every day a new case stumbled through them in the form of a drunken idiot or concerned parent or grieving widow, and on some days it was enough to make him consider the harsh realities of the world.

George was one for the fantastical. He loved writing books and imagining what, precisely, he would do if an alien invasion occurred. (Most likely, he would play ambassador and suss out the aliens' true intentions before treating them to some of the city's finest sights). The murders they dealt with on a daily basis would have affected him long ago were it not for his sprawling imagination and cheerful disposition.

On rare occasions, even his whimsy was tested, however, and this was one such occasion.

"Please, you must help me!" came a woman's voice from the front desk, loud enough that it attracted the attention of just about everyone in the bullpen, and even the Inspector himself.

George, looking up from the cup of water he'd just obtained from the cooler, frowned at the lady as she made quite a show of throwing her person at the front desk. He supposed she hoped to launch herself over it at one of the attending constables to garner more attention than she was already receiving.

"It's my husband, he's been murdered!"

While the statement was heavy-hitting, George found himself taking a sip of his water and returning to his desk. Sitting down, he regarded his co-worker and friend, Henry Higgins, with raised eyebrows.

"Like her husband's the only one who's ever died," Henry said good-naturedly.

The two shared a small laugh, then went back to their work.

A sense of humour, however bleak, was always good in their line of work. The commotion continued out front, but George tuned it out. Several hours later, he had his report typed up with due diligence, had slid it into a folder, and brought it into his superior's office.

"Sir?"

"Ah, what have you, George?"

Detective William Murdoch won the title of George's best friend with extreme ease. The two had been through thick and thin together and their bond was like no other.

"The report for the Simons case, sir."

"Thank you, George."

William took the folder and set it just-so on his immaculately organized desk, then returned to—

"What in the blazes is that, sir?" George exclaimed when his gaze landed on the contraption William was presently examining.

"I have yet to determine its use..."

The thing was large, or large enough to occupy about half the worktable in William's office. Predominantly metal, it stood about a foot wide and two high, shiny, wooden panels, and more than a few different glass circles that George could only describe as lenses.

"It looks to have come straight out of a comic book, sir!"

William laughed softly; George's antics always amused him.

"It very well could have, George. Though I think you'll find—" and here he turned the thing onto its side, revealing a small plate on the bottom, "—that it is a human-made curiosity."

George stepped forward for a closer look. Squinting, for it was a very tiny font, he read aloud:

"'J.P. & Company, Toronto'... Well that only begs more questions, sir. What did this company have in mind when making _this?"_

The older man smiled and righted the thing, box-like in structure, but with several more facets.

"A puzzle, George."

George stared in response.

"You see," William tried again, demonstrating how the little glass lenses turned and slid, "it was fabricated with a highly intricate and complex locking mechanism. A... a combination lock, of sorts. One must turn and slide the dials in precisely the right order to open the box and reveal what's been hidden inside."

Suitably impressed, George leaned in again and took another look. Sure enough, the tiny glass lenses had markings on them; Some numbers, others shapes, and others strange symbols that George assumed were fabricated.

"Well whoever designed this has read a great many comic books, I'd wager," he declared almost proudly.

"James Pendrick," William replied with a smirk, not looking up from the box.

"Oh _of_ _course_ it was, of _course_ it was Mr. Pendrick," George lamented, throwing his arms up in the air.

James Pendrick had a knack of showing up—out of the blue, unexpected, and usually unwanted, but George had to admit that the man brought a delightful amount of chaos and ingenuity wherever he went.

"Has he put something inside of it?"

"We'll have to get it open to find out."

A series of clicking noises resounded from within the box and one of the many panels shifted position slightly.

"Oh very well done, sir!" George congratulated, beaming at his friend.

William, however, shook his head with something of a mournful sigh.

"That is the third time I've managed to do that, but whenever I begin tampering with other dials it slides back into place."

"Well don't lose hope, sir. I have yet to see a case stump the great Detective Murdoch."

"And is _the great Detective Murdoch_ aware that he missed lunch?"

The two men looked up from the transfixing puzzle box at the sound of a woman's voice.

"Really, William, we only go out for lunch once a week," she said, but though her tone was chastising, she wore a smile.

"I know, and I'm sorry, Julia," William apologized.

Julia Ogden was another of George's long-time friends, (there were truly very few people George worked with whom he did _not_ call friend). She worked at the city morgue across the way from the constabulary and was a regular consultant on murder investigations. He liked her quick wit and morbid sense of humour almost as much as he thought the Detecive, her husband, did.

"And how are you today, George?"

"Oh very well, thank you, Doctor. Yourself?"

"Fine, thank you... though admittedly curious," she added, pointing to the box.

"Ah!"

William was alight with a revived excitement at getting to explain the puzzle box to someone new, and so George left them to it.

After all, he still had three more reports to write.

. . .

"And you can't get it to move past here?"

"Precisely."

Julia circled the table, inspecting the box as she went. She jiggled the panel that had slid out, tested a few others, and eventually decided to examine the dials instead.

"James Pendrick has certainly outdone himself this time," she remarked, turning a dial this way and that until another panel shifted.

"How did you do that?"

William was instantly back at her side after having admitted defeat only moments ago.

"I turned the one opposite to the same number," she explained, pointing to the first panel that had moved, and then to the second.

"Then it stands to reason that, should one coordinate the numbers or symbols opposite each other, the rest will open."

"Presumably..."

He set to work, and his wife smiled as she looked on. She loved him always, but at times like this she thought perhaps she loved him a little bit more.

A series of clicks and whirrs and a slight buzzing later, all of the panels had slid apart. There was about an inch of space between them all, and William huffed.

"I must have missed something—one extra dial to open it up," he surmised.

"Or," Julia suggested, "perhaps if you simply–"

She placed a hand on each of the top two panels, and gently slid them aside. This created a cascade effect wherein the other panels followed suit and collapsed down, revealing a small interior box. William flipped up the lid and plucked the envelope from within.

"A letter?" Julia inquired, stepping around the table to stand behind William.

Peering over his shoulder, she read:

 _Detective,_

 _I hope you have enjoyed figuring out my latest invention. By the time you read this, more like it will already be available in shops the world over._ _Pendrick's Personal Household Safe', a more secure place to store your valuables and hard-earned dollars than the bank, and all in the comfort of your own home._

 _No doubt you are wondering at its fabrication. The box you have just worked through was one of the prototypes and, as such, disassembles in order that you may view the inner mechanisms. They are a_ _marvel_ _!_

 _All of the locks are adaptable. Should you wish to change the combination, simply set each dial to the desired number or symbol before closing the box, and do remember to scramble them once closed._

 _I presently find myself in the company of a most charming woman in France. When I return to Toronto, I should like to pick your brain about another idea I've had._

 _Please give my love to Mrs. Murdoch; I hope you are both well._

 _Your friend,_

 _James Pendrick_

Julia emitted a small laugh at the last.

"He sends his love to _Mrs. Murdoch._ "

Knowing better than to argue that, in all technicality, Pendrick was correct, William merely replied, "And I am sure he sends it to Doctor Ogden, as well."

She smiled her thanks as they shared a look, then took the letter from him and read it over again.

"So they're already being sold to the public. I dare say they'll be the talk of the city if that's the case."

A non-committal noise was all she received in answer, so Julia looked up from Pendrick's elegant scrawl and saw William pulling another envelope from the box, considerably thicker than the previous one.

"What is it?"

"Blueprints," William announced once he'd unfolded the large sheets of paper.

He laid them out on the unoccupied half of the work table and examined them. Julia set the letter down and moved to hover over William's shoulder once more. It was a very elaborate machine, all in all, and must have taken hours to build.

"Fascinating," her husband remarked, smoothing out the folds of the drawing. "It's all cogs and gears... like clockwork."

"A clockwork box," Julia offered, reaching beneath the first sheet to pull a second blueprint free.

"Yes, precisely. He's outdone himself this time."

"He _always_ outdoes himself, William, and then ends up in prison or on the run. Hopefully this might actually work out for him."

"France is not exactly nearby."

Julia quirked a brow and glanced at him over her shoulder.

"You're implying that he _is_ , in fact, on the run again?"

"It would not surprise me," he laughed, flipping through the rest of the blueprints that had been enclosed.

"Detective–? Oh, hello, Doctor Ogden."

"Hello, Henry," the detective and his wife chorused.

"What have you?" William asked, setting the blueprints down and stepping forward.

"There's a woman here, Mrs. Josephine Bailey," he read off his notepad, "who says her husband's been murdered. She's insisting she get to speak with a Detective. I told her you were busy, but—"

"That's quite alright, Henry," William interjected in what he was certain would be a very longwinded ramble, "I will see her."

"In your office, sir?"

"Yes, yes," he replied, looking around at the scattered blueprints and obtrusive box cluttering the area.

"Very well."

Henry disappeared to retrieve the grieving widow from the lobby.

"Here," Julia offered, stepping around William to gather the blueprints which she then folded efficiently and replaced into the envelope.

She tucked Pendrick's letter in along with them, then set them in the box and attempted to move it.

"This weighs an absolute _tonne!"_ she exclaimed, having barely budged the thing an inch.

"Allow me, Julia. You can't have hundreds of metal gears without the weight."

"How on earth would anybody buy one and transport it home? You'd need a special service!"

"I'm sure that's something he took into consideration– Mrs. Bailey, hello, please, take a seat," William said, abandoning his attempts to relocate the box and switching quickly into his professional demeanor.

The woman was barely a woman at all, for she appeared to be between nineteen and twenty-two years of age. Even the ruddiness of her face from crying could not detract from her beauty. Her hair was fair, a bit lighter than Julia's, and she wore a dark plaid suitable for the chilly autumn Toronto was currently facing.

She regarded Julia briefly, who offered a sympathetic smile.

"My wife, Doctor Ogden, Mrs. Bailey," William said by way of explanation as he slid the chair in front of his desk back meaningfully.

"I was just on my way out," Julia assured, shot her husband a quick glance as if to say 'we'll talk later', and then disappeared into the bullpen.

William gave her a slight nod. He turned back to Josephine Bailey, gestured once more to the seat in front of his desk, then sat in his own chair and took out his pen and notebook.

The woman shuffled over unsteadily and sank into the chair with a deep sigh.

"Thank you for seeing me," she said meekly. "I know the constable said you were busy."

"Nonsense. Now, how may I be of service?"

She looked down at her gloved hands, wringing them, before answering.

"My husband, he... Well he's been murdered, you see."

"That is a strong accusation," William hedged carefully.

"Well I wouldn't be making it if I didn't think it to be true!"

"I was not suggesting anything of the sort, Mrs. Bailey–"

"Oh, there's no use in calling me that any longer," she all but whined, "I'm no longer married, I'm not his wife. I'm just Josephine, now, poor widowed Joesphine Bailey– Do I keep his name? Even when he's dead and gone?"

To say that he was taken aback by her wordiness was an understatement. William had dealt with a great deal of grieving widows in his time, but generally they had very little to say. If they _did_ have some sort of a break down such as the one Josephine Bailey was in the thrall of, then they did it on their own time and likely walled up in their home.

"Mrs.– Josephine," he began, hoping to avoid more bereaved chatter, "I am not the person to come to about legal matters such as name changes."

"Yes," she said quickly, seeming to remember herself, "Yes, I... You have my sincere apologies, Detective."

"Please tell me exactly what's happened, and all details you can recall."

Pen poised over the pad, ready to write, he listened:

"Well, you see, I woke up this morning at half-past eight, as I typically do. It _is_ a Friday, after all, and I don't work Fridays. Charles has been gone since Monday, and he was due back yesterday but telegrammed to say his train had been delayed and he would be arriving home around eleven this morning. So I went about my morning, made breakfast, ate it in the sunroom, tidied up, began getting dressed to go out. Then a knock came at the door and I went to answer it. There was a man, not with the postal service, he said, but a private... what was the term he used? Carrier?"

"Courier?" William supplied.

"Yes, that's what he said. A private courier. And he had this box for me; Big, wooden, trimmed in brass with little glass decorations. It was heavy as anything, so he brought it into my sitting room and left it on the coffee table for me."

"And it's still there now?"

"Certainly. I could hardly move it, not that I would want to now."

"Why is that?"

"After he delivered it, I was curious, naturally, but I had errands to run. I stop off at the butcher every Friday morning at ten sharp and I was already pushing a quarter to. So I quickly finished getting ready and went to the butcher, then the baker, and I picked up a few vegetables after deciding to make a stew for Charles' homecoming."

"What time would you say you returned home?" William asked, trying to get her back to the box, about which he had a sneaking suspicion.

"Probably noon by the time I'd done my shopping."

William checked the clock on the opposite wall. Nearing two.

"Please continue."

"I went in the house, put away the groceries, and then I remembered the box that the man had dropped off earlier."

There she paused and frowned, looking at William's desk instead of his face.

"Our coffee table is dark, like this," she explained, reaching out to briefly touch the edge of his desk. "So I didn't realize until I got up close to it, but there was... blood, I suppose. Everywhere. It had flooded the table and dripped on the carpet."

A moment of silence passed as William wrote, though he was using the slightly prolonged writing as a way to give himself more time to think before responding. A pool of blood coming from what he believed to be one of James Pendrick's new puzzle boxes? He resisted the urge to sigh. It was so typical.

"Did you open it?"

"Heavens no! Firstly because it was _leaking blood all over my sitting room,_ and secondly because I haven't the foggiest idea how to open it. There are no latches or knobs or locks or anything!"

William rose slowly from behind his desk so as not to startle her. He walked calmly over to where his own puzzle box sat and lifted the top two panels to bring it back up into a box-like shape.

"Did it look something like this?"

Josephine pushed herself out of her chair and shuffled over. She looked at the box for a short time, then nodded.

"Yes, only smaller."

"Very good. Thank you."

William ushered her back to her seat, then resumed his former position with notebook and pen in hand.

"What did you do then?"

"Well I screamed first and foremost. I never thought I would do, mind, I thought it was just something they did in stories. You know, when a girl sees blood she screams?"

William nodded, for there was, sadly, nothing else he could do to avoid it.

"I did that, and then I came here."

The detective mulled this over, turned her story this way and that, and finally looked her dead in the eye and asked, "So what reason have you to believe that your husband has been murdered?"

Josephine stared at him, wondering why he couldn't connect the dots as she had.

"There was a box filled with blood—or worse—delivered to my house and Charles was scheduled to be home by eleven. He should have been home when I returned from getting the groceries."

William knew this, of course, but he had wanted to hear it from her. Instead of questioning her further, he elected a different course of action.

"Mrs. Bailey… Josephine… Would you allow us to visit your home and inspect this box and its contents?"

"If you can get it open, certainly. As long as I don't have to be there."

"No, of course not. You may remain here—Constable Jackson will see that you want for nothing."

"I'd rather go stay with my sister," Josephine pleaded.

"Where does she live?"

"Two blocks East of me."

"Then perhaps we can have her brought here to sit with you. I'm sorry, but that is protocol for matters like these."

After a minute, she conceded.

"Very well. May I use the telephone?"

"Absolutely."

He walked her out to the front desk, explained Jackson's duties to him quickly, then retreated to the bullpen.

"George?"

"Sir," George greeted heartily, standing to attention.

"Will you accompany me to Mrs. Bailey's house?"

"Gladly, sir."

"Did Doctor Ogden leave?"

"No, she's in speaking with the Inspector."

"Excellent. I must gather some things, and then we'll be off."

He briefly ducked into his office and returned seconds later with his notes, handing them off to the younger man.

"Read these over, fill Julia in, and both of you meet me out behind the station in ten minutes."

Barely restraining himself from saluting, George instead straightened and clicked his heels together, began flipping through the notes, and went to save Julia from whatever impassioned speech the Inspector was giving today.


	2. Chapter 2

**Welcome back! In this chapter, George, William, and Julia visit Charles and Josephine Bailey's home to investigate further. Later, they make a gruesome discovery.**

* * *

Upon arriving at Josephine Bailey's house, they discovered that she'd left the door unlocked in her haste to get to the police. Why she wouldn't have just telephoned someone over was beyond George.

"You don't suppose someone else has already been inside?" he asked quietly.

Turning to look over his shoulder, William, who stood closest to the now-ajar door, frowned.

"We'll find out."

Stepping into the front hallway provided no clues as to whether or not they were the first ones at the scene. The three of them, in a line, wound their way into the sitting room, with Julia shutting the front door behind them and bringing up the rear.

The room was nice and big, bright, with a broad selection of doilies, lace, and florals that were most likely Mrs. Bailey's doing. The sheer curtains were pulled to the side, allowing the afternoon sun to beam in on the mess before them.

As Josephine had promised, the J.P. & Company-branded box sat on the coffee table, and all around it a pool of what appeared at first glance to be blood.

"Julia?" William prompted, but his wife already had her bag open on the settee and was approaching the substance with a vial.

"It would certainly seem to be blood," she affirmed, catching several drops of the liquid dripping off the table and stoppering the vial. "I'll have to examine it further, of course, but for the moment..."

"What else would it be if not blood?" George asked, thinking about some preserves his Aunt Daisy had made once.

"In all likelihood it _is_ blood, George," Julia explained, "but it may not be _human_ blood. It could be from an animal—but as I've said, it will need to be examined."

While George set about the usual process of dusting for finger marks (around the bloody leaks, of course), Julia turned to William. He had crouched next to the table and was giving the box a hard stare. Sinking down beside him, she laid her hand lightly on his arm.

"Do you suppose we could open it in the same way we opened yours?"

"I'm confident they changed the combination from its default."

Julia sighed softly, nodding in agreement.

"The blueprints?"

William frowned and finally blinked, turning to look at his wife.

"The ones James Pendrick sent to you. Perhaps there's an alternative way to open it."

"Of course," William beamed at the new revelation.

"I don't suppose we could just smash it? You know, just take it... and drop it off the roof of the constabulary." George asked innocently, demonstrating with an air of excitement.

He knew it was the most basic of methods to attempt, but surely it couldn't hurt. The worst that could happen would be that it made a terrible mess. The best, that the thing sprung open and whatever was inside—for, George reasoned, there had to be _something_ in there besides blood—was revealed.

Julia and William rose at the same time, and when her husband looked about to berate George for his suggestion, she spoke first.

"It would certainly be worth a try, George, and could save us a lot of time trying to decipher the combinations or dismantling it by hand. If it comes to that."

William shot her a look, but she countered it with one of steady, practiced calm.

"We must still adhere to protocol," he replied quietly. "We'll bring it back to the station and examine our options there. George, if you will."

The constable approached the table, lifting the box with a slight struggle. Though it was smaller than the one sitting in William's office, it still possessed a hefty weight. Julia pulled some gauze from her bag and wadded it up, wiping the liquid from the bottom of the box to prevent it dripping all the way through the hall and down the front walk. Given the size of the thing and how much liquid had already pooled, she doubted there could be much left in there anyhow.

"Carefully, George," William instructed as he led the way back to the door.

"Yes, sir."

. . .

"That looks just like yours, Murdoch."

Nothing could get past Inspector Brackenreid some days.

"It is, for the most part, sir. Though I fear it will be more difficult to unlock than my own," William replied distractedly as he shuffled through the blueprints for the sixth time since returning.

Julia had tested the blood first thing and had determined it was, indeed, human. After bringing her report to William, she stayed and had been mechanically trying combinations for well over three hours. George had been flitting between the two, helping Julia keep record of the permutations, and being a sounding board for William's musings as he scrutinized the diagrams.

"Time to call it a night. I'm headed out."

George gave a small wave of his hand, but the Inspector didn't bother to wait for a reply from William or Julia before leaving; he knew well that he wasn't likely to receive one. If you asked him, he would say that he thought they both worked too hard and deserved each other, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

As the minutes ticked on, George began to yawn, Julia began to sigh, and William began subconsciously tapping out a rhythm on the edge of his desk.

"Wait!" the constable exclaimed suddenly, causing both doctor and detective to give a start.

He jumped up from the chair he'd been lounging in and rushed over to William's desk. As he flipped madly through the notebook, Julia abandoned her post and went to perch on the edge of the desk, frowning.

"What is it, George?"

"Here!"

He had found the page he'd been looking for, and recited:

"'A private courier' brought the box to Mrs. Bailey."

William and Julia exchanged a glance, wondering what they were supposed to garner from that when it was clear George expected them to fill in the gaps.

"Well wouldn't it have come with instructions? If somebody sent her this box wanting her to open it, wouldn't they have at least given her the combination?"

They realized that George was absolutely correct and that either or both of them should have thought of it much sooner.

"She didn't mention any letter or instructions, but she was agitated and in shock," William mused.

"It could easily have slipped her mind, then," Julia suggested.

"Precisely," George agreed. "Her sister took her home a couple hours ago. Apparently she took a turn and the Inspector thought it would be best since we already had the box and it _technically_ wasn't a crime scene."

"The poor woman," Julia sighed. "I can only imagine what she must be going through... Although we don't know for sure that Charles Bailey _is_ dead. A bloodied coffee table would hardly suggest it."

"We need to find out what that box contains," William, whom had been quietly contemplating to that point, interjected. "And sooner rather than later."

"I could try her on the telephone," George suggested, and was already half way out of the office by the time William nodded.

"You believe he's still alive?" William asked softly once George had disappeared.

"You do not."

Leaning back in his chair, his gaze settled on the confounding box across the room.

"If he is, in what state? You concluded that the substance leaking from the box was human blood, and quite a lot of it."

"Yes, though hardly enough to kill a person outright. Unless he was dead already and..."

"And?"

"And someone had drained it."

They fell to silence for a moment.

"We are only scratching the surface of this," William sighed, eyes flicking back to the blueprints spread out before him. "There are so many more questions that need answering."

"You'll find the answers. You always do."

He looked up to see his wife smiling down at him and made an attempt to return it. While his record in police work was second to none, self-doubt would always gnaw away at his heart.

"William."

"Yes, Julia?"

"When has a case ever been easy? Think of all the others we've seen over the years. They were hardly settled in a few hours—sometimes they took days, or weeks, or months... even years."

"This one feels different," he answered slowly and with a frown.

Sighing sympathetically, Julia rose and circled behind him, hands falling to his shoulders where they gently squeezed and kneaded.

"Have faith, Detective Murdoch."

Leaning down, she pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.

"I will always try, Doctor Ogden," he said, smiling, and turned his head just enough to capture her lips with his.

A throat being cleared made them both look up to see a faintly-blushing George standing in the doorway, holding a scrap of paper.

"I've telephoned Mrs. Bailey. She was asleep, but her sister, a Miss Marjorie Clark answered. I explained what we were looking for, something with numbers and symbols, and she managed to find a paper with these on it. I asked her to keep it somewhere safe until tomorrow."

He held up the scrap of paper and William rose to retrieve it.

"Now I'm no artist, but I think I managed to capture what Miss Clark was describing to me," George warned, but William was already at the box.

His fingers deftly turned the dials, following the instructions George had written down, and panels began to slide open at what felt like an alarming rate. His comrades hovered on either side of him as the last dial clicked into place and the final panel slid. Hands poised, there was only to open it.

Then he stopped.

Of a sudden a heavy mood settled over the room, for the box was now unlocked. It was only to collapse the panels and look inside. Then they would find... well, no one could say.

"William?" Julia prompted softly from his left shoulder, her face inches from his.

That was enough to trigger his brain and body back into action, and he slowly pressed down on the panels until they sat around the blood-soaked inner box. Pulling out a handkerchief, he folded it several times to prevent it soaking through, and used it to gingerly lift the lid.

Whatever they had been expecting to see, it was not this:

There was a little blood left in the bottom of the inner box, though likely only about a quarter of an inch deep. Probably none of it should have leaked out, but it had been discovered that the box had been tipped on its side during delivery, allowing most of the grisly surprise to seep out gradually. William had to hand it to Pendrick—the gears still worked even when clogged with partially-dried blood. On the sides and lid there were scattered an assortment of roughly oval-shaped objects, each about an inch high and half an inch wide.

"What do you suppose those are?" George asked, although at that point he did not particularly care for an answer.

"I've an _idea_..."

Julia gently stepped around and in front of William, who still stood staring with a perplexed look at what they had just uncovered.

The constable and detective heard her count quietly under her breath before she straightened.

"Julia?"

Frowning, for it was all she could seem to do at this revelation, Julia looked him in the eye and gave her answer:

"Skin."

"I beg your pardon?" George asked, growing paler by the second.

Julia took a deep breath.

"Skin... Human flesh."

She began looking around the office for something, returning moments later to the bewildered gentlemen with a pair of pliers (the best she could do when not in the morgue) and a scrap of paper. Very carefully, Julia plucked one of the fragments from the box and transferred it to the paper where she gently blotted the blood off. Several tense seconds later, she held the piece of skin up to the light and nodded—an outward affirmation of what she'd suspected for a few minutes. When she turned back to George and William, she was met with grave but questioning expressions.

"There are ten of these in that box," she explained.

That was all it took for the gears in William's head to click into place.

"Fingers."

"Well, _pieces_ of fingers, to be precise, but... yes, I'm afraid so."

George shivered.

"I believe," Julia continued, once more holding the scrap of skin up to the light to gauge it, "someone has either removed their own finger marks, or has removed them from another."

"Who would do such a thing?" George whispered, more to himself.

"And _why_ ," William added, stepping behind Julia to observe the faint-yet-visible ridges of fingerprints in the light.

"More questions," she sighed, alluding to their earlier conversation. "We'll need to store these properly. Perhaps in the morning, when we've all had some sleep, we can take prints."

"Then I'll see if I can match them to any we have on record," George offered.

"If they belong to Charles Bailey, as I presume they do, we won't have documentation of them. He has no criminal record of any kind," William said.

"What about Josephine Bailey?" Julia proposed. "We can't rule her out of this entirely."

"She has no record, either, but we should ask her back to the station tomorrow to take _her_ finger marks."

"And we've still got the ones I took from the box today," George reminded them.

"Yes... I'd nearly forgotten," Julia responded. "Our courier may not be who he said he was."

"We will adjourn for the evening and get an early start tomorrow," William decided.

The three gathered their things, Julia having the extra task of placing the finger pads into a small jar to transport to the cold room of the morgue on the way home. They stepped out into the night, streets now lit only by the lamps and a fresh wet sheen on the ground from a light drizzle.

"Good night, George."

"Good night, Detective, Doctor Ogden. See you tomorrow."

. . .

"There, they'll be safe until morning."

Julia closed and locked the door to the cold storage. She'd left William at the steps by the office, where he still stood with a far-away look in his eyes.

"That's enough, now. We leave work at work," she chastised softly, grasping his hands.

"Yes," he replied after a short lapse, "You're right, Julia, you always are."

Smiling, he offered her his arm, and the two set out into the city anew.

He had a hunch, however: Julia's rules or no, this case would follow him home.


	3. Chapter 3

**More questions, more pieces of the puzzle... and very few answers.**

* * *

By the following morning, news of the mysterious box and its contents had spread like wildfire through Station House No 4 and events unfolded thusly:

When William arrived, he'd settled in at his desk to review his notes with the fresh perspective only a good night's sleep could provide. That he'd slept at all was still a wonder to him considering the circumstances. It wouldn't have marked the first occasion he had sacrificed sleep for a case.

A slight commotion out in the bullpen jarred him from the task at hand and drew his attention upward.

He did not anticipate seeing at least ten pairs of eyes staring in through the windows of his office at the box which still sat on his work table. It was merely human nature, of course; Everyone loved a good bit of macabre every now and then, and, arguably, particularly those in his profession. When several of the constables realized he had seen them, they quickly began nudging their neighbours with elbows and dispersing.

With a sigh, William made a little show of going around to each window and drawing the blinds down. He didn't enjoy shutting himself off from everyone chiefly because it meant that his office lost most of its light, but they were an excitable bunch and he didn't want anyone jumping to conclusions where matters of the case were concerned. That was how false facts and inaccurate stories made it into newspapers, and he rather wanted to keep his cards close to his chest for the time being.

"Sir?"

"Come," William called, watching the constable slither in.

"Any word from Doctor Ogden yet?"

"She left for the morgue first thing this morning. I expect we'll be hearing from her shortly."

George nodded.

"I've telephoned the Bailey residence and Miss Clark says she and Mrs. Bailey will be here at eleven."

"What time is it now?" William asked, already looking up to the clock on the wall.

"Just past nine-thirty, sir."

"Good. I have much to review."

"Very well, then. I'll leave you to it."

George turned and slipped back out the door, for he knew that there would be a number of men crowded around waiting for either a glance at the bloodied box, or else to hear the latest concerning it. Sure enough, no sooner had he shut the door behind him than George ran straight into Henry, whom had been attempting a hasty retreat.

"For goodness sake, Henry, not you, too!"

"I'm sorry, George, but everyone is talking about it."

"They don't know anything about it," George replied shortly.

"Well... _you_ know about it. You could tell me and then I could inform the rest of th–"

"I don't think so, Henry. Detective Murdoch obviously doesn't want anyone to know just yet."

His friend looked about to protest, so George held up a hand.

"If and when I am allowed to tell you, I will, and then you can be the one to relay it on."

That seemed to appease Henry well enough, and the two parted ways. Henry went off out front, likely to inform the boys of the latest development. George, rolling his eyes, dropped into the chair at his desk, and sighed. His gaze soon wandered to the windows of the detective's office, blinds drawn, shutting everyone out. It wasn't like his friend to be so secretive, but then, George supposed, there was a first time for everything. After all, it was a very odd and frankly unsettling case.

That one could knowingly and willingly cut the skin off of their fingers, (or do it to another), was disturbing in his mind. What in the world would have made them think of it, let alone follow through with it? And why? Had Charles Bailey made a serious enemy of somebody? Did the little pieces of flesh even belong to him?

He could question it all for days on end. Unfortunately, they wouldn't know more until they heard from Julia, and from Mrs. Bailey herself.

. . .

"Goodness, it's dark in here. Have you become a vampire?"

 _Leave it to Julia._

"The constables were rather _too_ intrigued by the box," William clarified with a quiet laugh.

"Well that's a relief."

Smiling, she made her way over and they shared a quick kiss. Normally she would have made some remark about the fun they could have in there with all the blinds down, but the case at hand demanded attention.

"I have something for you."

Suddenly there was a folder in his face.

"I can see that."

They laughed and settled at his desk, Julia on her usual perch atop it and William in his chair. When he opened the folder, he was presented with—

"You took finger marks?"

"With great difficulty, I assure you. I had to guess at the arrangement," she explained, gesturing to the prints on the card. "Aside from the thumb and smallest finger, the remaining three were debatable."

"And you've kept the actual specimens as well?"

"They're back in cold storage."

He looked up at her and smiled. Sometimes he forgot just how perfectly coordinated they were, and how it seemed they'd been made for each other. Moments like this one reminded him.

"Wonderful, thank you, Julia."

"My pleasure. Would you like me to have the box moved there as well?"

"Not just yet. I'd like to show it to Mrs. Bailey when she arrives."

"Are you sure that's wise?"

"One may discern a lot about a person by how they react to something like that," he explained.

"Clever as always."

His gaze drifted back to the finger marks on the card before him, a frown creasing his brow.

"What is it?" Julia inquired softly, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder.

"If we had some of Charles Bailey's finger marks, we could corroborate them with these."

"What if Mrs. Bailey were to bring in something of his?"

"That's an excellent idea—George!"

He went to the door and wasn't surprised when the young man was already there.

"Could you please telephone back Miss Clark or Mrs. Bailey, and ask that she bring in a personal item of Mr. Bailey's? We'll need to dust it for finger marks," he added, discreetly holding up the card of prints so it would not be visible to any prying eyes just beyond George and the door.

"Absolutely, sir!"

Face alight with excitement at the new development, George ran off to do as instructed. William quickly shut the door and returned to his desk.

"What would I do without the two of you?" he asked softly.

"Oh, I'm sure you'd _manage_ ," Julia teased."Or else be hopelessly lost. I really couldn't say."

He reached out and grasped her hand while he stared at the sheet of prints as though in doing so it would reveal all its secrets. Certainly whomever had sent the box had intended for Mrs. Bailey to open it and discover the shocking contents. They must have known she would go to the police and that there would be an investigation. Surely they had anticipated the box winding up in possession of the Constabulary...

"Julia..."

"William?"

The question he'd been about to pose never came, for George burst through the door unannounced.

"Sir!" and, belatedly, "Doctor Ogden!"

"What is it George?" Julia frowned, standing.

"It's Mrs. Bailey... She's just received another box."

. . .

It turned out to be roughly the size of the previous one, perhaps very slightly larger. William and George had gone to collect it, and when they arrived back, Julia was still waiting at the station.

The constables had all lined up to watch but left a clear path through the entrance, all the way in to William's office. Julia followed them in and hastily shut the door behind her with a sympathetic look to the company of men looking eagerly on, wanting nothing more than a simple hint at what was transpiring.

"Didn't Mrs. Bailey come with you?" Julia asked as she met them at the work table.

"She was very distraught, Doctor. I took her finger marks and we let her remain home with her sister."

"Poor thing," Julia sighed.

"This one has a new combination."

William, for all the goodness in his heart, could sometimes be a little apathetic where emotions were concerned. He ignored the chatter between his wife and friend, focusing instead on getting the box open. Turning this dial and that, it opened in record time.

"It's so clean," George remarked at the absence of blood.

"A welcome surprise," Julia concurred.

William remained silent, slowly opening the lid and then promptly shutting it when he caught a glimpse of its contents.

"What is it, sir?"

Julia stepped around to investigate further, but her husband held out his hand, stopping her in her tracks.

"Julia, please."

"Well then tell us what it is! We've already seen sliced fingers, I'm sure we can handle _this_."

"Please go and ask Inspector Brackenreid to join us," was his only reply.

When it became clear that that was all he would say, Julia shared a quick look with George and then did as instructed.

"Sir?" the constable asked quietly.

Once again William was silent for a time, but at last gave the young man a tight smile.

"Another piece of our puzzle, I'm afraid."

"Goodness," George breathed, frowning as he looked down at the box. "I don't suppose I'm to know what's in there, either?"

At that moment Julia returned with Brackenreid in tow. The latter was not typically squeamish, especially after all the years he'd put in to earn his title, but the way he walked over to the table suggested trepidation.

"What is it, Murdoch?" he asked gruffly, staring at the box.

William briefly lifted the lid to show him.

"Oh bloody hell!" the Inspector exclaimed, as expected, and turned away from the sight.

The room fell into a heavy, all-encompassing silence. George and Julia stood together, watching as William and Brackenreid processed. Absolutely anything could have gathered the 'bloody hell' reaction from the older man, but it was his going completely quiet in the aftermath that veered the circumstances into concerning territory.

"Sirs?" George tried softly, barely daring to breathe.

Detective and Inspector exchanged glances briefly as if having a silent conversation: 'What should we tell the children?'

"It's a tongue," Brackenreid stated finally.

"A tongue?!" George exclaimed, turning to lean on the table.

William, as ever, only had eyes for Julia. Try as he might, he could not place the blank expression on her face.

"Jul—"

"That's it?" she asked bluntly.

The three men stared.

"For goodness sake, William, I've certainly seen worse than a severed tongue!"

Bustling over, she slipped in front of both her husband and Inspector Brackenreid and opened the lid of the box once more. It was, as promised, a tongue, sitting in a little pool of blood. She rolled her eyes. _Men._

"Gentlemen, if you would be so kind as to find me a handkerchief and a small box or container, please."

Within thirty seconds she had both of the things she'd asked for and had removed the offensive object from their sight.

"I will take this to the morgue, examine it, then store it with yesterday's findings."

"Very well," was all William could say.

She frightened him some days.

With Julia gone, they were left with yet another combination box and no further clues. It was highly unlikely they would get Mrs. Bailey in to the station for questioning that day as distressed as she was, so George offered to go dust the cigarette case belonging to Charles Bailey that they'd managed to obtain. He left the two older men to discuss and returned to his desk where the case sat waiting.

After an hour, he had succeeded in lifting four separate prints from the case. Three of them corresponded to Josephine Bailey's. George held the remaining one up, comparing it to those on the card of prints Julia had taken in the morgue that morning. Several minutes later, he had come to a conclusion: The finger tips, (or at least one of them), did indeed belong to Mr. Bailey.

"Sir!"

George leapt up, startling Henry, tripped over his desk, and stumbled the rest of the way to William's office door.

"Sir, I've got a match!"

. . .

"You're sure you won't faint at the sight?" Julia laughed as William and George entered the morgue and filed down the steps.

"Quite sure, Doctor Ogden," George replied, while William simply shot her a look.

Lifting the cloth from the dish, she revealed the severed tongue, cleaned up considerably from the sticky mess it had been in earlier. Although no less disconcerting, the removal of the blood made it ever so slightly easier to bear.

"Were you able to tell how long it had been in there?" William asked.

"Not definitively, no, but there's hardly any decay."

"Meaning?"

Julia glanced between George and William, eventually deciding to backpedal just a little.

"The blood in today's box was already beginning to dry when we opened it, whereas the blood in yesterday's box was barely dry at all even after it had leaked."

"There was a great deal more in that one," George observed.

"Which could be part of the explanation," Julia affirmed, "or perhaps it was 'packaged' more recently. Either way, it's difficult to determine a timeline when there isn't a whole body present."

"Could this have been put into the box at the same time as the... finger marks?" William asked, his eyes meeting hers.

"In theory, yes."

The possibility that, somewhere, there was a warehouse holding a tidy sum of J.P. & Company's puzzle boxes filled with a man's body parts weighed heavily on the trio.

"You'll also notice," Julia pointed out after a brief silence, "that this was likely rather hastily removed."

She directed their attention to the shredded area at the base of the tongue. George thought it looked like the jagged edge of paper when he tried to cut it too quickly.

"To keep him quiet, no doubt," William said. "If he was even still alive..."


	4. Chapter 4

**We observe a passage of time as the case drags on, and some new information about Josephine Bailey is discovered...**

 **A/N: I just realized in uploading this chapter that my section breaks weren't showing up, so I've re-uploaded this chapter and will be doing the same for the other chapters. :) #ThanksFFnet ...**

* * *

 _Three weeks later..._

The hour was so late that it was, in actuality, morning. Echoes from his footsteps seemed far too loud as they bounced off the bricks of the buildings that lined the street. Silly though it was, he feared waking anyone.

William stuffed his hands further into his pockets and hunched his shoulders as he picked up his pace. The weather was unseasonably cold, even for October, and he hadn't thought to bring mittens or a scarf in to work the previous morning. Instead, he tried to think warm thoughts about home, seeing Julia, knowing she would likely still be up—it was not often that she went to sleep before he arrived home, no matter how late he arrived and no matter how early she had to be up the next day. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he imagined what she would say when he walked through the door, half frozen and shivering:

' _The brilliant mind of the infamous Detective William Murdoch did not have the foresight to keep a scarf and mittens—just in case—in his office year-round, but especially at the end of October?"_

A small laugh escaped him, for the thought of Julia doing or saying anything, reprimand or otherwise, never failed to make his spirits soar. He quickened his pace yet more in anticipation of arriving home sooner. The walk was not long, usually just enough to think of Julia and to go over the details of the day, though frankly he'd had enough of the latter of late.

There now sat a veritable hoard of eighteen boxes taking up a whole corner of his office, and threatened to encroach further. Each had contained a separate part of a person... Well, not just _any_ person. Charles Bailey's death had been confirmed (if it hadn't been already) three days ago when the largest of the boxes had been delivered to his wife Josephine. As had become their almost-daily custom, George and William had gone to her house and retrieved it, secreting it back into the station. Only once they were locked away in his office with Julia and Inspector Brackenreid completing the group had the box had been opened to reveal the paramount piece of evidence: The head of one Mr. Charles Bailey, indelicately severed.

George had nearly passed out, Brackenreid let out a string of curses, and even William's stomach churned a little. Julia, however, had started working almost immediately, assessing for decay and, when she realized she would need better light, found a way to transport it to the morgue without alerting any of the constables as to what it might be.

So now as he walked home, he chose to avoid any and all thoughts where the case was concerned. William wondered instead whether this cold snap was temporary and if he should do the right thing tomorrow, (today), which was to dig out the mittens and scarves.

Of a sudden he became aware that he was no longer the only person on the street. The quiet echoes of his own footsteps were joined by those of another. Being a detective, he had long ago mastered the art of a subtle glance, and he presently took a quick peek over his shoulder. The street was all but shrouded in darkness, the glow of the lamps not quite sufficient for making out details. It appeared to be a man in an overcoat and hat, not unlike himself. He seemed to be carrying something, but he was unfortunately still too far away to be able to make any conclusive assessments. Likely the man was just trying to get home, same as William. And there, up ahead, he saw a constable out on his nightly beat. Worst case scenario, at least he'd have backup.

He knew he shouldn't automatically think this way, however working with and for the police often garnered attention, and not always the good kind. Forefront in his mind was the idea that the man behind him could well be associated with Charles Bailey's killer, or be the killer, himself. Although William barely felt he was making any progress on the case, perhaps his interference was enough. Goodness knew his mere involvement in past cases had been sufficient cause for shooting incidents and kidnappings and... well, other rash actions, to say the least. No one could blame him for a wandering, waxing imaginative mind at this point in his career.

Thankfully, he arrived home safe and sound five minutes later.

. . .

"He could well have been alive at the start of all this!"

Josephine Bailey had been in William's office for the better part of an hour, lamenting on and on in a similar fashion.

"As I have said before, Mrs. Bailey, that is highly un—"

"'Highly unlikely', yes! Well we'll never know, now, will we?!"

She had been pacing to that point, whereupon she collapsed into the chair sitting in front of his desk in a fashion that William would lately have considered melodramatic, until he'd come to know that that was just the way Josephine Bailey _was_.

"No, I suppose not," he conceded. "But I am afraid I can offer you no new information since the last time we spoke, Mrs. Bailey. Should anything come to the surface, please rest assured you will be the first person contacted."

What he really wanted was for her to leave. She'd wasted time, precious time, when he could have been investigating further, tracking down the courier company (who seemed not to exist outside of dropping off James Pendrick's boxes to the Bailey residence) and determining where each box was purchased. George, to his credit, had been working diligently with all the shops in the city, and even some _not_ in the city in an attempt to pinpoint where such a mass quantity of boxes had been purchased. So far, most shops reported sales to be very minimal given the cost.

"Sir!"

On the subject of George, the young constable burst through the door, startling both its occupants.

"Oh my apologies, Mrs. Bailey, but I need to speak with Detective Murdoch."

The words had hardly left his mouth when William was up and already across the room.

"We will only be a moment, Mrs. Bailey. Please wait here."

Swiftly pulling the door to behind him, William followed George back to his desk in the bullpen and looked at the information laid out.

"I've telephoned every shop in the city and sometimes as far as Quebec. It got a bit dodgy there as I don't speak a whit of French, even though my Aunt Iris—"

"George."

"Sorry, sir..."

He selected one paper from the mess of them on the desk and handed it to William.

"A list of shops?"

"Not just _any_ list of shops, sir, a list of _eighteen_ shops."

"Our killer, or an associate, purchased one box at each shop so as not to arouse suspicion."

"And not only that, all the sales were made on the same day."

"Associate _s_ ," William corrected himself.

Whomever it was they were dealing with had clearly figured things out well in advance.

"Well I was thinking, sir," George began, "what if this courier company had something to do with it?"

"You believe the same courier delivering to Mrs. Bailey transported the boxes originally?"

Shying away slightly, George shrugged.

"I thought it might be possible..."

"That's a very good connection, George," William praised as he looked down at the list of eighteen shops.

The trouble was that they'd taken one step forward and three back, now. While George's discovery was certainly an improvement on their almost-stagnant case, it now left them in a predicament. They needed to find out about the courier company, but with no name or even a single face to go by, it was like searching for a needle in a haystack. Worse, arguably, for they weren't even sure there _was_ a needle in the haystack.

"If only Mrs. Bailey had been able to see that man again, she might have remembered his face."

"Presuming it was the same man leaving the boxes each day."

"I wonder why he offered to bring it in for her on the first day, but left it on the doorstep every other?"

"Likely," William sighed, "because he realized his mistake and knew we would go looking for him."

"But even the constables stationed outside of the house didn't see him. How can we find someone if he's… if he's like a _ghost_?"

George had a knack for believing in silly things like aliens and ghosts at inconvenient times, but something about what he'd just said resonated within William and caused him to frown.

"Like a ghost," he mused.

"You know what I mean, sir."

"Yes, yes, I do…"

He thought back to the wee small hours of the morning, when he'd been walking along the street and had discovered he was no longer alone.

"Sir?"

"Our constables have only been stationed there… when?"

"Why from dawn 'til dusk, Detective."

"How early would you say?"

George bent over and rifled through some papers until he found his notebook. William waited, if a little impatiently, while his friend flipped through it.

"When I was sent out with Henry the other day, we were there at nine."

"And there was no box on the doorstep when you arrived?"

"No, sir."

"What time did you leave?"

"Probably nine at night, sir, but—oh."

William couldn't help smiling slightly as realization dawned on the constable's face.

"Sir! They deliver them during the night!"

"Yes, and Mrs. Bailey or her sister must bring them in before the constables arrive in the morning."

George could have jumped for joy for making a breakthrough, however small.

"Well done, George," William added as he headed back to his office. "I'll have a word with her now."

However, when he opened the door to his office, Josephine Bailey was no longer there. Perhaps he had simply taken too long and she'd grown tired of waiting, but a hunch was beginning to form in the back of his mind.

"George?" he called, grabbing his hat off its stand and reemerging into the bullpen.

"Yes, sir?"

"Come with me."

. . .

The two traveled to the Bailey residence, where they were greeted by Marjorie Clark, Josephine's sister, and invited in to sit.

"I had thought she was going to see you, Detective, not the other way around."

"She did, Miss Clark. That's to say, she arrived at the station this morning and spoke with me for roughly an hour. At which time Constable Crabtree made an important discovery and I asked her to remain in my office for a few minutes while we discussed the matter. When I returned, I discovered she had left."

"That doesn't sound at all like her," Marjorie sighed softly, reaching out to straighten a doily on the coffee table. "Josie has been so committed to finding out what happened to Charles… she wouldn't just abandon her efforts now, even with… even with the latest developments."

It went unsaid, but everyone in the room knew she was speaking of Charles Bailey's severed head.

"She did not strike me as one to give up, either," William assured as he thought back to Josephine's diatribe earlier that morning.

"Oh goodness," said Marjorie suddenly.

"Miss Clark?"

"What if the man who took Charles has taken her, as well—What if she's in danger?!"

To say that the thought hadn't occurred to him would be a lie; that had been part of the hunch he'd experienced back in his office.

"Please don't get yourself worked up just yet, Miss Clark," he asked while George handed the poor woman a handkerchief. "Did your sister or her husband have any enemies that you were aware of?"

"No, no, none," Marjorie shook her head. "They're the sweetest people… I wish I saw more of them, only I live in Hamilton and can't visit as often as I'd like. When she telephoned and said that Charles was missing, that she figured someone had killed him, I didn't know what to think. Charles wouldn't hurt a fly, let alone a _person_. I can't imagine who would have wanted him dead, Detective."

"When was the last time you visited them, Miss Clark?"

"Actually, _they_ visited _me_. That was in June."

"And was anything amiss?"

"Not at all! As I've said, Charles and Josie… It isn't often you find folks like them nowadays. They got married three years ago. Of course, our father only allowed it because Charles had money, but they were so happy, so in love…"

 _Motive._ William's ears had pricked at the mention of the father.

"Your father wasn't fond of Charles?"

"Oh, no I wouldn't say _that_ , I… He just wasn't what Papa had had in mind for Josie."

"And where is your father now?"

"In Hamilton. We're all from Hamilton originally, but Charles worked in Toronto so where he went, Josie followed."

William exchanged a brief look with George. Working together for so many years had done wonders on their skills to silently communicate.

"Would Mrs. Bailey have any reason to suspect your father may have had cause to—"

"Oh, never!" Marjorie said quickly, clearly appalled at the idea. "Josie and Papa are so close, and..." It seemed to occur to her precisely what William was implying, and her face clouded. "Detective, if you're suggesting that our father would have killed Charles out of spite—"

"I am not suggesting anything, Miss Clark, merely trying to piece this case together," he replied evenly. "I'll ask that you please remain here while we search for your sister."

. . .

"This is an interesting but cryptic holiday, William."

Though she wasn't what would be considered traditional backup in the police trade, William had seen fit to invite Julia along on the excursion he and George were about to embark upon. She had, after all, had a somewhat tumultuous relationship with her father, and would possibly be able to provide some insight in one way or another.

She would also be excellent company on the train ride.

"We'll just get settled, now, and George and I will fill you in on what's happened."

Were Julia one to become giddy over cases, this would have been one of those times.

"So," she prodded as they all shed their outerwear and sat down in their compartment, "why are we going to Hamilton, and why are you being so quiet? It isn't like George to keep a secret this long."

"Now Doctor," George began, but her statement rang true and he dissolved into laughter instead. "You've a good point."

"Josephine Bailey has gone missing," William said once George's and Julia's laughter had quieted.

"Oh dear... You don't suppose she's met the same fate as her husband, do you?"

"No," William replied quickly. "I believe she's gone to see her father."

"In Hamilton," George added.

"Why...?"

Julia's brow furrowed in that special way William loved.

"We learned from her sister that their father only allowed the marriage to take place because of Charles Bailey's wealth."

"So you believe that he was the one who murdered Mr. Bailey... Or had people do it for him. It sounds as though they're a family with money as it is."

Another thing William loved dearly about Julia was that she always caught on quickly and could follow him nearly thought-for-thought. He smiled slightly.

"That's the conclusion George and I have come to. We're going to see whether or not it holds any clout."

"But you're out of your jurisdiction here. Surely the Hamilton police will have to—"

William interrupted her by reaching into one of the inner pockets of his jacket and producing an arrest warrant.

"Inspector Brackenreid wrote that up before we left," George said proudly. "He contacted Hamilton and explained the situation."

"We can bring him back to Toronto for a day for interrogation, but we'll need evidence that he's our murderer."

"I'm sure some finger marks will clear things up," Julia replied with a smile, proud of her boys. "Well done."

"Even if we can't find evidence within the twenty-four hours, we may be able to find out something about this courier company."

"Speaking of, what's got me," George piped up, "is what sort of a father decides to chop his daughter's husband into pieces and then mail them to her?"

"Not a good one, George."

"A crazy one, certainly," Julia answered. "But we've met all kinds."

The three old friends shared a smile.


End file.
